


The great and glorious constellations above us

by Lavender_Seaglass



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! Zexal
Genre: Crushes, M/M, as best as teenagers can, dealing with things, learning to be normal, middle school canon ending, not an au, which is the best part
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-04
Updated: 2014-10-04
Packaged: 2018-02-19 19:16:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2399771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lavender_Seaglass/pseuds/Lavender_Seaglass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael Arclight enrolls in a class he's two years too old for, but he's not the weirdest one in their school, let alone his class. Not by a longshot. But that's not why he's interested in his new fellow students.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

It's not a lump in his throat or anything that's got his tongue, but Michael is quiet for a second after his bow and before his introduction to his new classmates who are currently his audience. He scans the crowd and sees a scene he's dreamt—more faces are unfamiliar than familiar. But mostly what he sees are smiles, and a lot of kind and somewhat curious courtesy, nothing at all what his few errant nightmares about this moment were like.

For once, reality is easier than the dreams.

But the space of the poor tortured previous second is stretched into three, four, five seconds; he'll have to speak soon. His eyes alight to the top, back middle row in the classroom. It's easier to look there for the morning sun is not in his eyes, and there his gaze can rest on the sight of his few friends in the world. The sight is enough, he doesn't need their recognition to encourage him. Because Yuuma is engaged in something and several of them are whispering, shifting, not paying Michael attention, but then why would they, when they already know who he is?

Michael feels dizzy; the ground is not stable beneath his still feet. But he also wants to smile, and before he does that he's going to nod or dip his head to banish the sense of vertigo and the sudden sensation of tightening around his eyes because the sun is rather bright after all. He's going to move until he suddenly realises that there's someone's gaze aimed at him, aimed more or less right at his forehead because of the downward tilt of his head. He doesn't remember when he started looking at the floor.

This someone is a person who's more or less familiar after everything that they all have been through together, someone who's something like a friend just as all the Barians are now.

And his eyes are green, Michael notes.

They make eye contact, and Michael smiles. They keep it going. And there's no overt encouraging, no embarrassment, just warm energy that he wouldn't have ever known to admit that he needed now. One second, then two, without looking in his memories for a name for his supporter, with a rushing, airy feeling, Michael begins his first ever plain introduction to his almost-peers.

“Hello, my name is Michael Arclight, and I am one of your new classmates.”

 

.

 

At lunch Michael sits with Yuuma and his friends. It's a large circle and it includes students from all three years, all seven previous emperors, and a roving range of personalities. He finds not that he's drowned out, not that there's too much chaos or commotion, he finds that the problem is with him. He doesn't know everyone yet. There are some introductions he'll have to get later.

But there's still plenty to talk about—the weather, which is hot for this early in the spring semester, one of the Numbers club assures them, duels, food, culture to catch up on. And hints, if one is listening, that some in this group are older than they should be. There are some comments on the healthful heartiness of Michael's packed lunch. He admits that he didn't pack it, no way, one of his brothers did it for him. But he doesn't want to mention just yet that they hired a professional nutritionists to salvage the dietary habits of his family. He isn't sure that he wouldn't be able to not make some comment to the effect of, _and, take my word for it, they could do some good for you._ It would be much nicer and profoundly more subtle if he did say it, that's definitely true. But, sitting there with the sun in his face and the warm breeze rustling his hair, both sides surrounded by people and with voices to talk over, he doesn't want to be anything but right there, smiling.

A little later, after some members of their group have helpfully disbanded the assembly a few minutes before the bell, is when Michael approaches Yuuma to learn the name of his morning class supporter. He's a fellow classmate, so Michael doesn't feel any guilt at all learning his name first.

“Yuuma, do you have a moment?”

“Oi, Th--Michael.” His friend greets him as he turns around. He looks a little confused which isn't something that Michael was expecting. “Is there a minute left until class starts?”

“No, there are two or three left, I believe.”

“Oh—well, anyway! Of course I have a moment. Do you need something? I'm sure it's more interesting than school, at least.” Yuuma laughs and Michael has to smile.

“Well, it's not much. As for interesting, well...” Michael trails off for a moment, rolling his head slightly, looking for the the human boy who's the subject of his inquiry. There he is, standing next to several of the other former Barians, all of whom Michael is of yet unfamiliar with. “He's probably an interesting guy. But what is his name? He's in our class, right? But he didn't introduce himself this morning.”

It's rude to point, so Michael directs Yuuma's attention with a flick of his head and the focus of his stare.

“Ah, that's Alit. He's a pretty interesting dude! And he didn't need an introduction. He was already enrolled in the school before you.”

Michael expects some more explanation, but when nothing comes he turns back towards his friend, and he immediately sees the signs that his interest is best placed elsewhere—in something that didn't come before the war, in something that is not directly related to it. It's still too soon to speak too lightly about a lot of it. Although there are some details that can slip through, for otherwise they wouldn't at all be able to talk to each other or about each other.

After a moment, Yuuma continues, “Actually, you like Roman kind of things, right? So you'll definitely think he's interesting—that's something he knows a lot about.”

Again, Michael looks at his friend, feeling like he should expect something more, or at least _get_ something more, but what's come is all that will be given. If there was anything of a deeper meaning in those words he'll have to puzzle it out later.

“I see. I'll definitely have to talk with him, then.”

“You should duel him!” Yuuma says.

Then, the bell rings.

“Oh, damn. We're all going to be late,” Yuuma declares, sounding not nearly as worried as Michael is suddenly feeling, though soon he realises that it might br okay after all. If they're going to get in trouble, at least they'll get in trouble as a group. As friends.

 

.

 

In class Michael sits in front of Yuuma. He's constantly aware of the distinct feeling of being the oldest one in the class. The oldest by several years—only that's not quite right, is it? What about the Barians?

But what about them, he wonders, as he shifts his weight back onto his feet and realises that he's been daydreaming. He can't remember how many times he's been told by Christopher how important it is to keep both feet flat on the ground in order to maintain optimal blood flow and maximum concentration. He's been reminded of this as many times as he's been told to drink enough water.  As if he could always stay concentrated on his circulation for as long as a lesson—though it seems more substantial to him than the stuff of today's lectures. Even the current one which is maths, supposedly one of the hardest classes, engages him dimly at best. They're going over concepts he learnt years ago from a tutor.

It's so easy it's almost ridiculous, but he strives to keep taking notes anyway, as per the assiduous habits that have been drilled into him by tutors and a genius brother who has warned him off more times than one from the disastrous outcomes of Thomas' education. Imagine, if he doesn't apply himself like the middle brother did, how will he become anything? Especially when—and here Christopher was being honest—Michael hasn't been blessed with the natural talents of a world-class duellist?

This, Michael tells himself, is proof of different kinds of geniuses. His brother Christopher is a science whiz. His brother Thomas is a duelling Einstein.

As for himself, he's gone woefully off-track, as he can see by the doodles he's stuffed into the paper before him. Under a quadratic equation an ancient wonder is rolling down a hill and is only seconds away from hitting a pile of lesser wonders. Above that is a rough schematic of a dig-site he's been researching—in the middle of it is supposedly a dimensional door, represented by a set of finicky straight lines. And he's drawn Roman columns to border the top and bottom of the sheet. Michael sighs and is going to erase what he can, has his mono eraser in his hand when something lightly, lightly bumps into his head, rolls down his neck, disappears past his collar and into his shirt.

He stiffens. Reaches a hand along his back, knows that he won't be able get whatever it is out of his shirt without standing up.

He turns around and looks at Yuuma, one eyebrow raised in askance. Kotori is looking at Yuuma too, looking ready to slap her head if only she could do so without drawing any more attention to her or the silent spectacle that is Yuuma.

And, out of the corner of Michael's eye, Alit is eyeing Yuuma too.

Yuuma shakes his head, shrugs, and then grins, and the only thing Michael can do now is match the gesture.

He faces back around and tries to focus. His insides feel pleasantly warm.

 

.

 

“What that idiot was trying to do, was to invite you over for a duel party tomorrow,” Kotori says to Michael. They stand congregated at the back of the class after school has ended but before Yuuma's punishment for chronic lateness has been completed. Their friend is busy washing the windows with more than a few grumbles. Remarkably, at least to Michael, no-one else seems to mind that Yuuma is the only one that was punished, but he hasn't had a chance to bring it up yet. Instead he focusses on the conversation at hand.

“Yes, the note said as much.” Michael holds it out, as if confirming that he read it. “I guess his aim was just poor this one time?”

“Who knows! But he's never gotten it to land in someone's clothing before,” Kotori says, and she shakes her head one more time before she is suddenly all cheerful and efficient business. “Anyway, it's at his house, but me and his grandmother will be cooking, so there'll be dinner if you'd like it. Nothing as fancy as your lunch today, but, as you already know, Yuuma's grandmother can make some really good food.”

He blushes, naturally. And, without being quite cognisant of the fact that it's merely teasing, is going to downplay the obvious cost of his lunch to do something like mitigate his embarrassment. And he's going to compliment Kotori's cooking because he still remembers how exquisite her duel meal—what would have been his last meal—had tasted, but he can't say anything before Alit chimes in with, “as can our dear Kotori! If cooking were duelling, you'd be a champion. No questions asked.”

It's a compliment, Michael knows, but something about it feels like something a bit more. More—what? Endeared? The sense that he should know is nagging at him like the first shades of dehydration, yet what was said is in fact a compliment he certainly agrees with, so he nods and smiles his agreement before he says anything.

“It would be an honour to attend. And how could I forgot, how good your food was, and how well Yuuma's grandmother could cook! It was all so delicious! Really, I don't think anyone could ever eat better than he and his sister get to. I gained weight staying there.”

That's when Alit turns to him. Once again, shows interest directly in him. Offers a friendly energy that flows, engulfs like a wave. “So you've had a sleepover with Yuuma, have you?”

“For a few nights, yes.”

“All right, that settles it! We're definitely have a duelling _sleepover_ at some point. That's what kids our age do, isn't it?” Alit asks, and this question is for both Kotori and Michael.

Although it is Yuuma who answers, “you bet!”

All three of them turn towards him, give their friend their attention and two questioning looks: is he done with his chores already?

Probably not, but it doesn't matter, not when he's asking, “but don't you guys think you should ask my permission first? What if I don't want all of you sleeping on my floor at once?”

A moment of silence, but Yuuma is grinning, so obviously teasing, and yet Micahel can't help but flush. What a gross slip of manners, decorum, everything he prides himself for having cultivated as his very own personal qualities. The shame rushes like cascading water down his back.

“I'd sleep on your roof if it meant I got to have a sleepover with you, Yuuma,” Alit says with a shove to his friend's back.

For some reason, Michael doesn't doubt it.

 

…

 

His family doesn't have much to say about the party other than, yes. It's a positive yes with encouragement to go and act like the normal kid that he can now be, but still there's _something_ about the response of his father and oldest brother that has him occasionally glancing over his shoulder while he works on his homework to wonder.

What are Christopher and Tron working on these days? Michael is sure that only Kaito and _his_ father could ever hope to understand it.

As for Thomas, he's still away, and will be away for awhile yet.

And when Michael lays himself down to sleep a fluttering begins in his stomach, grows, spreads, expands and extends, until his whole body is shaking by the time the nightmares have gripped him. As always, they end with parting and a flash of the soul's light.

 

...

 

It's at the party that Michael finally engages him on his terms.

After watching Alit duel with a deck of boxers and brawlers, he finally, finally recognises whose company he is in—a fighter's. It rings like a bell, he feels that their hearts may be resonant, and as Alit wins his duel something like the boy's breathtaking competency forms a lump in Michael's throat, and he wishes just then that he _always_ carried a rapier with him. (And then for a second is glad that he doesn't have to.)

How could he have missed all the cues? The curves and straight powerful lines of Alit's body, the impeccable posture, the cocky way of walking that challenges the world?

Michael figures that the boy must be literate in the universal language of fighters. But he'll wait his turn. Like a good fighter, he'll wait for the right opportunity.

 

.

 

And Kotori clarifies it all a bit. Of course, Michael thinks, he could have counted on her for a more precise and pellucid account. Or at least as much of an account as she can give without being rude.

“Alit? Well, yes, I'm sure he does know a lot about Roman things—do you...do you know what the Barians were before?”

Before everything, Michael thinks, and he tries not to nod his head too ambivalently. “I think I have an idea, based on what my brothers have told me. But it's not a question of what they were, but of who. But then I'm not sure if that's right. We couldn't be unless we asked them directly, and I can't say that that opportunity has ever presented itself.”

She gives him a look, as if she's waiting for him to finish. Then nods her head, once. “I imagine that this is a rather personal subject for them.”

“I would imagine so.”

There are so many questions that he wants to ask.

 

.

 

When the time comes, Michael, like a gentleman, extends his invitation with a flourish of his hand when they are alone, not on the roof of Yuuma's house, but in the living room, because for some reason neither he nor Alit are in their sleeping bags where they should be. Michael can't speak for Alit, but his problem is that he hadn't sleep very well for very long. When he'd woken up in a haze of his already-receding nightmare about losing something too close to bear, Michael had simply headed for where he thought there would be light but no company to disturb for the twenty or so minutes it would take him to reassure himself that everyone is alive and well, that both of his brothers are around.

He was wrong thinking that he wouldn't disturb anyone, though, because Alit is sitting at the table with his deck laid out before him. But Michael can't say that he minds this little swing of serendipity. In fact it has made a lot of things easier. Even if he hasn't realised it yet.

What Michael says is, “Would you be up for a duel?” He's no longer aware of any of the horrors that won't stop haunting him.

Alit eyes him from across the table, looks like he is thinking for a moment, but about what exactly Michael feels he could never guess. Not in the lifespan of the being before him. Then a decision seems to be made, or something clarified, because Alit's face clears up into a smile with a not-so-subtle competitive edge at the corners of his lips. And there's the fighter he suspected.

“Hell yes. As long as you've got a deck, then let's go.”

But Michael shakes his head. _No. Not quite._

The look on Alit's face is one of many things, but Michael offers again before he can say anything, “Not that kind of a duel.” A pause. “The kind where you can use your fists. And place bets.”

There it is, that competitive edge is right back. Pure confidence with no bluster at all and a physical presence that forces itself into the consciousness of others. Michael yearns to match it. But he tries first to feign nonchalance. That's more comfortable, that's closer to home, there's a part of him that wants to be a tease and get a rise that he so much wants to see. He's just a kid and being demure is just an act.

And fists aren't the only way to fight.

“Is that so?” Alit asks him.

“Those seem like two conditions that have definitely gotten your attention.”

“Yeah, well,” Alit says, and he stretches his arms, places them on the back of his chair, suddenly his chest seems a few centimetres larger, and Michael nearly believes he's going to have his challenge met for sure. “What can I say?”

“You could say yes.”

“But tell me about the bets first.” Alit gives a quick gesture with his left hand, one that's vaguely dismissive or impatient, then looks directly into Michael's eyes. Michael's sure Alit can see right through him, it's a strange feeling, not quite intimate and not quite intimidating, and then Alit says, “what is it that you want from me?”

So, he can't hide anything. Not from Alit, not from himself.

“I want to know who you are.”

That has them both quiet for a moment.

 


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They duel.

Silently, the countenance which Michael faces shifts before him into such a look, Michael wonders for a second if it isn't he himself who's done the shifting, into a chimera or some other grotesque beast. But when Alit's brow sets and a smirk emerges Michael sees that his initial reading of Alit's expression was wrong. It wasn't shock. He pictures how confidently Alit swings his arms into his friends—Alit's not the kind of guy who'd think that he's so unimportant that no-one would take a fascination with him. He knows he's got _something_ going for him, if not actually a great deal at the very least. Nor was the expression surprise, or pure surprise. He wasn't expecting the question that came, and something unexpected is just not something that expert fighters have to contend with very often.

Though—and it was barely a glimmer that was mostly concealed—there _was_ something a little personal about it. Alit must have thought of something in his past.

But now the boy at the table throws back his head and says, “is that so? Don't you already know who I am? I'm Alit, one of the former Seven Barian Emperors, now a human with a newly minted body.” He seems to think about something, then points directly at Michael who's struck by this action which is so starkly a revealing gesture. What kind of manners it must take to allow himself such carelessness, Michael thinks, as Alit's sinews stretch out under his skin. “You're an Arclight, aren't you? You said that was your name yesterday.”

Michael nods. But he can't say that him being an Arclight means anything in particular for their relationship just at this moment. Alit wasn't the one who offered his family their proverbial deal with the devil, nor is he one of the Barians with whom Michael directly interacted with, and the inorganic lifeforms he draws from his memories do little to help him as reference points for where this person may have shown up in the story of his and his family's past. Maybe Christopher would know, but he's not here, it's just the two of them.

And, oddly enough, for all the gravity of his family's tragedy and and mistakes and redemption and ties to the Barians, Michael finds he's in the mood to quip. “I'm glad there's someone who remembered my name who doesn't expect something from me because of it—well, at least someone who doesn't expect an autograph from my older brother.” He wants to add _something_ about that warm energy they shared for some moments and the support that Alit offered to him when he could have so easily taken a spill, but none of the words he has just now can capture the feeling. Nothing is appropriate to channel it. And then Alit says something Michael wasn't expecting:

“Could you actually get me an autograph?”

“What? Why would you even want one?”

Thomas' own complicated history comes to mind and hangs there over Michael with all its weight, he doesn't know what to expect or how to handle what's coming next, but then Alit just laughs and crosses his arms across his chest with the one right over the left. “Good question. He's a champion, yeah? Then I'd rather duel him. But, duelling—that's what we were talking about, yeah? What now about our duel? I want to hear more about that. About you wanting to get to know who I am is what you want to bet.”

Michael nods, is about to continue, and then Alit unabashedly interrupts. “C'mon sit down. I'm not going anywhere any time soon.”

Without feeling like he's differing to the other, Michael sits down across from Alit and his deck that's still spread out upon the table. Several of the holographic cards catch the light and that catches Michael's eye—what an array of warriors lain out before him. He doesn't allow his gaze to linger too long on the cards however out of respect for a fellow duellist.

“So,” Alit says.

“So.” Michael breathes in. “It's as simple as that, really. I want to get to know you better.”

“We're friends already, aren't we?”

“Yes, but...” Michael's not sure himself what he's going to say next, or really where he's going at all. He wants to fight Alit, yes. He wants to know more about him, yes. Wants all of the stories, all of the experiences, all of the first-hand accounts of the ancient world that really could have had him salivating in other circumstances. But there's a key difference here—Alit is alive, not just the memories of someone long ago passed away, he's a person, before him, someone that he wants to get to know better, and here's where one of the things that he's learnt from Yuuma is solid in his mind and not just something vague he wonders if he's understood at all.

Approaching Alit as something to study, treating him as an object without feelings, doing anything to alienate him even though at one point he was an alien as far as any of them were concerned—well, it strikes him as childish and something that he would have done when he knew less about the world and the people in it and the way that it all works. And he doesn't want to live like the kind of person he was before.

So he tells himself.

What he needs to do—and what he wants to do—is be interested in Alit the person with whom he wants to be friends in a way that's profoundly better than just situational acquaintances. And that's much more complicated. Less so than family, but it involves understanding another person, not an average one in a crowd, but a singular one on a one-to-one basis with all that that entails: patience, kindness, compassion endlessly. These are traits that are generally prized but not always the easiest to show. They are traits that are constructive and not destructive, and everyone knows that destruction is so much simpler than construction; but the former is also less an act a love than the latter, and the latter is what you hope to receive.

What he needs to do, is to accept Alit for who he is: whoever that person is, whoever that person was.

Michael cocks his head. Nods once, a smile and a flush on his face. “I want to be even better friends, because, frankly, I think you're cool. I want to hear all about you, right after I pin you to the ground with a blade to your throat. Though it'll be a wooden blade, of course.”

He may be serious but that doesn't mean that he can't gush, though immediately he regrets it just a little, thinking that the flattery was too overpowering when he sees the way that Alit casts his shoulders. Michael is wrong to assume that Alit's just preening in the attention, though, he can tell almost in the next second right before the offered challenge is accepted, but the acceptance _does_ come with a wonderful bit of one-upmanship.

“You're on, but only if you use the real deal. There's no way I need that kind of a handicap.”

“But—“

“What, do you don't think I can handle it?”

“No—no, it's not that. I just don't want to hurt you. I don't want to be so—unsafe.”

Alit smirks like he has nothing but good things coming his way. “Trust me, I've faced a lot worse than whatever you're going to throw at me. But, if I win, you're going to have let me teach you a few things about fighting like it really used to be.”

 

…

 

The duel is in exactly a week, minus a few hours so that it can actually be held at a relatively reasonable time.

In the meantime, they sit closer together at lunch, and, with his body always leaning in forward, Michael listens to whatever Alit deigns to tell him, though it's never too much. The details Michael really wants he'll have to win, or at least that's how he thinks the narrative is being set up. At other times they are just as caught up in conversation but it's not always Alit who's talking about himself. Michael finds that he's just as good at it, when there's someone there to listen.

 

…

 

Facing Alit, with only the countdown left to go, Michael realises for the first time that he truly doesn't know what to expect from Alit. His opponent has a good stance, that he can tell already, but that's really the only thing he's going to give away to Michael. He's not showing off: his hands are held up lightly and expertly. His balance is masterful. There's not a trace of anything but good sportsmanship.

Michael holds his sword out away from his body; it's not a rapier, but a proper blade, as per another one of Alit's perilous conditions. Michael shifts his weight, which isn't exactly the best move if he doesn't want to give anything about his mental state away. So he scans their surroundings one last time: a private gym for the Arclight family, which Michael has otherwise used as a place to run on a treadmill for hours and whack away at dummies until his mind becomes as raw as his opponent's shiny leather surface.

He breathes in. Wonders one more time what this fight is going to entail. And then he counts down to one, and off they go to clash in the centre of a wide circle marked on the blue mats with white tape.

Michael's sure he's going to get the first hit in. Nor does he have to strain himself to do so, he sees delightedly as he steps forward with his left foot in a good fencing stance even if his opponent isn't playing by the same structured rules—hadn't wanted to by his own happy choice. Michael's stepping and stabbing sideways, and _that's_ when he sees the look in Alit's eyes that's like a blinding blaze ignited by battle. He's underestimated Alit.

Michael has to dodge right to escape a blow—he went too far in to Alit's left, assuming that that would be a weak point. In hindsight it seems too obvious as he dances away to try and get enough ground to get into stance again, but Alit is right on his heels, and it's like all the nimbleness Michael has always had doesn't mean a thing. Then Michael has to dodge again—rolls to the floor with a grunt to get out of the way of, he can't believe it, what must have been the beginning of a choke-hold.

Alit tries to jump him and pin him to the ground but Michael slashes the attempt away with quick, strong strokes using both of his arms. He kicks away from Alit with both feet and twists up so that he's standing again, just in time to twist to the side and go for a space along Alit's torso that he senses will open up in a few seconds like a lovely flower just waiting to be picked. Michael slices out, but the whole thing is a feint, Alit twists to the side _himself,_ and with a jab of his elbow and a shove of his shoulder he bashes Michael's sword from his hands. The blade skitters across the mats.

Disarmed, dazed, Michael hops back one, two steps, stumbles. Hopes that his ankle won't roll out from underneath him. His attention he has to split between his foe and sword that's now lying on the ground; without it, there's no way he'll win. But, every bit the contained inferno, Alit begins to circle in front of Michael and between him and the blade.

So it's now or never if Michael's going to reclaim it.

Michael rushes, falls to his knees and slides, will regret it later because now he has shorts on but at least the sweat helps him move along, and he grabs the grip of his blade, actually has it in his hands, is securing it and standing when his feet leave the ground again and in fact it's his whole body that is airborne this time. He feels his eyes widening.

Alit whips Michael over his shoulder, and then Michael's back collides with the ground. Somewhere off his blade bounces as he falls and falls beneath the white and black blotches crowding in his vision.

 

.

 

He must have been unconscious for a time, for when Michael begins to experience awareness again things are different. There must be a new light, though that doesn't make any sense in a place that's completely lit by artificial sources. And yet the colours are different—lines are more sharp. Even if the room around him is sparse, it's all so vivid it's beginning to give him a headache.

New air enters his lungs, though it's not comfortable for the first few breathes. He has to sputter through them until he can get something like a rhythm again. He must've not been out long, then, if he's still got some of his wind knocked out of him.

But something is gone from the world. Not just his world but the world itself, and the thought is so troubling, the loss so great, he sits up so fast he gives him the urge to be sick and falls over as dizzy as if he's tumbled down after spinning around too many times despite warnings from older children and adults that he's just asking for trouble going that quickly, just you wait.

Then Alit appears, and it's such a relief that the thing that's gone away _isn't_ Alit, Michael wants to reach up to him but he finds this urge to make contact is overpowered by his urge to be sick. All he can do is stare, and fight a rising tide of a feeling that makes him tense and ill at ease. This feeling has something to do with Alit's existence, even though its the very same existence that has just granted him such a reprieve from his inexplicable fears that Michael has to think about something he hasn't thought about for a while—saviours and gods, divine intervention that can cleanse. And he doesn't want to break eye contact now with Alit. At least they have _that_ contact.

Then Alit looks him over as he lays there. How easily the victor could end it all if only he wanted to. It would be so simple. And, unlike in a duel monster's duel, so very primordial. The thought of his own vulnerability at the hands of his friend takes his breathe away again, and forget fighting a tide of feeling, it's a losing battle, Michael doesn't stand a chance against the crush of heat in his own body. Maybe, just maybe, he can blame the unquenchable fire still burning in Alit's eyes for igniting him. That fire is at least an old thing that's carried on into this new world Michael has woken up in. His friend is still luminous as he was.

“Here, let me help you up.” Alit's hand is already extended.

As he accepts and is pulled up, Michael knows with a certainty as real as the nausea pulsating in his stomach that he wouldn't have been able to make it up on his own for at least a few more minutes yet.

So, he really has been thoroughly beaten. He smiles because of it.

“That was amazing, Alit. I don't think I'll ever hear your story, then.”

He could just be imagining it, but Alit's eyes widen, it looks like he's processing something and can't quite figure it out, and then Alit asks,“What, you're not up for this next week? Did I scare you off that easily?”

Wrapped in the question is something that Alit isn't going to express any more directly than that, Michael thinks, before thinking that this is another thing that he's imagining. He decides now to pay his over-active imagination no mind. It must be the source of his recent problems with perceiving reality.

But still the question stings his heart a little. He wants to answer as quickly as possible and assure Alit, and he curiously feels like he's doing so for both of their sakes. “Of course I'm willing to have at you again next week. Who said I wasn't? I'm not a craven, I'll have you know. And it will take more than one defeat to break me.”

“Well, then.”

“But, beating you?” Michael shakes his head; he's just being honest. “I might need an extra lifetime or two, but I'll do my best. You're not going to see the last of me until I beat you.”

“Well, it's a good thing I'm so strong, isn't it? Otherwise how could I beat back all of the rivals I have these days! Anyway, I've got all kinds of things to show you now. You're gonna have so much fun.”

They shake hands, and that's when Michael finally sees what's been missing from the world. A streak of red along the side of Alit's white cotton shirt is standing out suddenly as the most salient feature of his person. It's a testimony to the fact that Michael got Alit, at least nicked him, at some point during their fight. It doesn't matter that he doesn't remember when precisely it happened.

The shock of the sight is so stunning that it takes Michael a few moments to recover his manners. He looks up, leans forward, touches Alit's shoulder. “Here, Alit, let me treat that.”

As if he hadn't noticed so superficial a wound, Alit looks at him enquiringly. Michael has to indicate the injury with a gesture. He takes his hand off Alit's shoulder and then they are no longer touching.

“Ah, that? So what. It'll be fine.”

For some reason, Michael takes Alit's indifference to his own health personally. “Look, it may be only a small scratch for a warrior, but let me at least bandage it, all right? I caused it so it's the least I can do. And I want to.”

Alit just looks at him then. Michael expects resistance, sighs and tenses his body to prepare for it because this is a point on which he's not going to give ground even if he's already tired and bruised, but the resistance never comes. Alit just shrugs his shoulders and says:

“Whatever you say.”

Michael smiles, unaware of his heated cheeks.

.

 

What Michael sees when he touches Alit is nothing different than what he could have seen when they were changing clothes. So it isn't seeing it—even if seeing it this closely is sure something special in itself—but what really makes the difference is the _touching_. Running his fingers over still sweat-sleek skin, glossy skin, skin that he's going to mend.

And, to be honest, he's never seen masculine topography like this. It's foreign, nothing at all like the native territory of how he and his brothers are built.

“It's not that bad, is it?” Alit asks from somewhere. “So what's taking so long?”

Michael swallows and begins to work.

 

...

 

That night Michael has a dream that's still a dream, but it's unlike anything he's ever experienced. Or at least that he can recall having experienced, though he's fairly certain that he'd _remember_ having had a dream like this.

It starts with limbs that writhe like snakes. A writhing mass of humans resembles a writhing mass of vipers. He isn't sure which one is more deadly.

Then he's not alone, at least not in such an impersonal way as being surrounded by anonymous limbs, there's an individual and not a mass before him, someone's here that he knows. Not just that he knows _of_ or _about_ , there's a connection between the two of them like a great rope of light that binds them together and you can't tell which is whose end.

Then they fight, are sparring, and it's a whole new world once again as Michael is flat on his back and although he can't see or touch Alit's body in this position he can feel it already on his fingertips and stomach. His quivering stomach, telling him yes, yes, you'll enjoy this even though Michael doesn't know what _this_ is and somehow somewhere he feels that whatever _this_ is it is something to be afraid of. What kind of an unknown body does he have? Traitorous, desperate, not something that has to do with the pristine structure of the lifestyle he likes and has, with its teatime and steaming cups and well-groomed clothes and manicured hands and restraint that's highly praised.

What a sickeningly physical being he is.

Michael would flee, but already it's too late to stop his own self—the riptide of pleasure crashes up along his body even as the eddies of shame pull his mind down towards his legs. But it's shameful, shameful—how could he have such images, such expectations of his friend?

As he wakes to a pulsing crotch this is the question that smashes through the veil of sleep and nestles right in the space between his eyes. How could he have such corrupted thoughts? How could he allow such a rot into the friendship he is so carefully cultivating?

But it's useless to try to be something he isn't, isn't it, he thinks as he buries his head in his hands and doesn't yet deal with the growing problem beneath his sheets. What has he even learnt from his friend so far?

Well—he's been taught not to give up. Maybe that's something, Michael thinks. And then comes a realisation that's as pleasantly jolting to him as bare feet coming into contact with cool, wet grass: it would be selfish for him to give up on himself so easily. He has to try to lead something remotely like a decent life in order to make up for his past transgressions in the name of family. He knows this. And there are still so many amends to make.

 

…

 

The days of the next week quickly crash into each other as the date of their next duel approaches. And then the next duel after that, and the next. In the spaces between the times when they are duelling one-on-one and communicating at their best, Michael feels that some measure of closeness has receded, and a distance has been imposed, even as their relationship improves. Alit is not a private person, but he isn't everything he can be until he's in the arena with the potential to be at his peak. Even if he _won't_ reach his peak in that particular fight he's still animated then by the light of life that burns, consumes, purifies all the mental underbrush that clogs pure expression. What a sight he is when he's ready to go.

Michael is also getting to know the other Barians better, as well as Yuuma's other friends. In their system Yuuma is the star that is their sun that shines so brightly and benevolently he can support all life. Everyone else is a planet but they all do have a distinctive personality of their own that invites interest. And they all exert some kind of gravity on each other. Some more than others, for some have more influence, there's not much you can do about that.

Michael imagines that he's one of the smaller planets. Not out of modesty but out of respect to the integrity of his own metaphor of a solar system. He can't use their own real solar system because there aren't enough colours or planets for everyone—even if he did disappoint his brother to go against scientific convention and count Pluto as one of them.

So it's an alien solar system he's imagining. Not that he minds, rather it makes it more interesting and appealing to his peculiar sensibilities. Aliens? Yes, please.

It also fits them all in a way because of the past but that's not a thought that Michael spends too much time bothering to think. It's not the point. His imagery, at least in his opinion, fits well for other reasons.

And as proud of it as he is, he doesn't share it with anyone else just yet. There's one flaw that he has yet to figure out how to explain without needing to resort to bending the known laws of physics to make the concept hold.

What the problem is is this: he cannot account for the attraction he feels for the heavenly body that is Alit. He's proportionately a good size, yes, but there's no way he's bigger than the sun, so how is it that his gravity is so much greater. Whenever Michael's between the two, there's an inscrutable tug towards the lesser of the bodies—how can that make sense?

Michael always shrugs when he gets to that point, because it's not like there's anyone that he can ask. These aren't real physics with scientific answers, this is a matter that's got to do with him.

 


End file.
